


to be consoled as to console

by wordslinging



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous Use of the Prayer of Saint Francis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Religious Content, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslinging/pseuds/wordslinging
Summary: Tomas and Marcus, taking care of each other.(Spoilers through mid-season 2)





	to be consoled as to console

**Author's Note:**

> Things I have approximately five million feelings about:
> 
> -how much both of these boys need to be comforted and supported and loved  
> -how much each of them has been comforting and supporting the other in season 2 while also dealing with their own shit  
> -that them praying together to get through tough moments is a recurring thing  
> -that time they recited the prayer of Saint Francis together and it was incredibly romantic and erotic despite them standing several feet apart and not looking at each other (shut up it was)

The night he tells Tomas about God's absence, Marcus drinks too much, gets to a point where he knows he's going to regret having another round and has one anyway. The next morning, when the clock radio in their motel room starts beeping, he covers his head with a pillow and grumbles half-hearted abuse until Tomas shuts it off with a murmured apology. He often wakes up absurdly early to get in a run before whatever the day throws at them; normally Marcus can just roll over and go back to sleep, but today the dull throbbing behind his eyes elevates the shrill, insistent beeping from mild annoyance to flat-out torture.

He's too bloody old and tired for this, he thinks sullenly when Tomas has gone and the room is quiet. Too old and tired to be nursing a hangover like some stupid kid who doesn't know his limits, and definitely too old and tired to be mourning the loss of God's attention like some spurned lover. If God wants to turn His regard elsewhere, let Him--Marcus will still be here when (if) He turns back.

He drifts off after that, not waking again until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder and hears a voice urging him to sit up--Tomas, bearing painkillers and Gatorade.

Tomas moves around to the other side of the bed as Marcus sips from the plastic bottle, bending to take off his running shoes and sitting back against the headboard. When Marcus caps the bottle and starts to lie down, Tomas touches his shoulder again, steering Marcus's head into his lap.

If it were anyone but Tomas, Marcus would be embarrassed of the little moan he lets out when strong fingers begin to rub slow circles at his temple. Tomas keeps it up, pausing now and then to stroke Marcus's short hair. The steady, gentle sweep of his fingers overcomes all resistance, until Marcus is boneless with relief, a looseness in his limbs that he hasn't felt, even in sleep, for longer than he cares to admit. 

It's only when Marcus is on the verge of falling asleep again that Tomas speaks, voice nearly as soothing as his touch.

"Do you remember in Chicago, when I went through your things? I couldn't understand what I saw, and I was so angry, so…"

"Afraid," Marcus supplies when he trails off, voice muffled against the worn-soft fabric of Tomas's sweats.

"Yes," Tomas agrees softly. "But then you told me about your past--your childhood, your first exorcism, the vision you had once. And I told you I'd seen Jessica...and then we prayed together. Remember?"

Marcus gives a soft noise of assent, and Tomas's hand passes over his hair again.

"I felt so... _connected_ to you then," Tomas goes on. "I felt that way the first time we met, but being angry and afraid made me forget how it felt, and praying helped me remember."

He pauses in his ministrations, hand resting on top of Marcus's head. "I don't know if I can help with you feeling cut off from God, Marcus. I think that's between you and Him. But maybe I can help you remember you're not alone in all this."

Tomas leads the prayer this time, Marcus following along quietly and wondering if a prayer to Saint Jude might not be more appropriate than one to Francis. He gets no sense of anyone listening, no sense of connection to something bigger than the two of them. As best he can tell, God isn't with him.

But Tomas is.

"O divine master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console," Tomas goes on, clear and strong, as Marcus's lips form the words almost soundlessly. "To be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love."

Marcus reaches up to catch at his hand and Tomas pauses, lacing their fingers together. 

"For it is in giving that we receive," Tomas says. "And it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life."

"Amen," Marcus finishes, and Tomas squeezes his hand.

They stay like that for a few moments, and then Tomas gently disentangles his fingers. 

"We should get up," he says, sounding reluctant. "Things to do."

"Just a bit longer?" Marcus asks, like a child begging for five more minutes in bed--not that he was ever stupid enough to try that with either of his parents.

Tomas's hand settles on his hair again, and Marcus can hear the smile in his voice as he replies. "All right."

***

"You have no idea what it's like," Tomas says, and Marcus says "Then _tell_ me," holding Tomas's face in his hands and speaking with the same unbearable tenderness he uses to tell the possessed that God loves them and frightened children that none of what happened to them was their fault. "I'm here for you, Tomas."

Tomas wants to protest that Marcus can't help him with this, that he can't put it in words and even if he could, Marcus wouldn't understand how it feels. What stops him is partially Marcus's earnest expression, and partially a small voice in the back of his head. _Are you so sure he can't help? Or is that just you falling prey to the need to be special again, making this into a burden you must bear alone when he's right here offering to help bear it?_

Marcus lowers his hands to Tomas's shoulders, still looking at him with that gentle concern. "Will you pray with me?" he asks.

Tomas nods. Prayer is easy, familiar; prayer means he doesn't have to find his own words. Tomas bows his head and clasps his hands and Marcus does the same, no longer touching, but his nearness, the warm, solid _realness_ of him gives as much comfort as the ritual does.

When they finish, Marcus touches his arm lightly, nodding toward the trees. "Let's find a spot with a good view of the house. We can talk while we wait, if you want."

They find a spot and begin their vigil, and Tomas talks, the words halting at first, then faster. He starts with the feeling of sheer wrongness from the oil-slick _thing_ in the first vision he had with Cindy, and by the time he gets to what he'd experienced in the house last night, the words are rushing out of him like an undammed river.

"I could _feel_ everything, as if it were really happening to me," he says. "The gunshot, the chain hitting me, the water filling my lungs...I died three different ways last night and I felt every moment of it."

Looking so stricken at those last words that Tomas wishes he hadn't said them, Marcus clasps a hand around his wrist. Tomas only realizes then that he's shaking, that he's clenched his fists hard enough for his knuckles to go white, nails digging into his palms.

"Hey, hey, c'mere," Marcus says, tugging at his arm, and Tomas lets him fold him into a hug, one hand cupping the back of his head. Tomas uncurls his hands to grip the back of Marcus's jacket instead, face pressed into his shoulder.

"What you said about the visions leading us to this family…" he says. "I can bear it, for them. For now. But if it keeps happening...I don't know how much more I can take."

"Don't think like that. We'll find a way through this." Marcus's hand runs over Tomas's hair and comes to rest on the back of his neck, and it feels so good Tomas wants to cry. 

Part of him--a large part--wants to just stay like this for as long as Marcus is willing to keep holding him. Instead, he gives it a few moments, until he feels steadier, and takes a step back, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Thank you."

Marcus gives him a crooked smile, hands resting on his shoulders again. "Like you said the other night, yeah? We're partners."

Tomas nods, but whatever other reply he might make is forestalled when he catches movement from the direction of the house. "Marcus," he says, pointing, and when Marcus turns to look at the thin figure moving across the wide lawn, "You see it?"

"Whoever that is, it's no vision," Marcus confirms for him, and then the figure turns to look furtively about and Tomas feels Marcus stiffen beside him as moonlight falls across Lorraine Graham's face.

Evidently not spotting them from their cover past the treeline, she turns again and darts toward the house. Tomas grabs Marcus's wrist. "Careful. She has a head start, and she could be armed." 

"Then we move in slowly," Marcus says, voice tight. "But if she lays a hand on Harper…" 

"Let's go," Tomas says, and they move toward the house as one.


End file.
